Page 85 of Given to the Black King

“A hunt.”

The claws against the parapet dig deeper.

“Inside the walls,” I say. “Ground we choose. Rules we agree to. I run. You follow.”

His jaw tightens around the permanent points.

“And when I catch you?”

The old voice is back.

Heat runs through me.

“You keep me.”

He stares down at me. One claw cuts deeper into the parapet.

“Tomorrow night,” he says.

“No guards?”

“Guards at every exit. None in the hunt.”

“Good.”

I walk away before I can change the terms by climbing him on the wall.

Behind me, stone cracks beneath his claws.

IONA

Sera finds me cutting the sleeves off an old riding gown.

She stops in the doorway of the wash house with a basket on one hip.

“That dress offend you?”

“It has served its purpose.”

“It still has both sleeves.”

“Not for long.”

She watches me cut through the second seam. The gown is dark green, plain, and old enough that nobody will mourn it. I chose it because the skirt is narrow enough to run in and loose enough to tear.

Sera sets down the basket.

“Should I ask?”

“No.”

“Good. I’ve work to do.” She begins sorting sheets. “Take the wool stockings. The stones are cold after dark.”

I look up.

She does not.

“Thank you.”